It ain’t rape? It is rape. Tilf and Trick are angry as hell.

Today I encountered something called #itaintrape. I bimbled around the internet, trying to find out what on earth it was, and what brain-dead, inbred, dirt farming, mouth breathing, rotten piece of faecal slime could have come up with something like that. And all I found was more horror.

Apparently, and I was amazed it hadn’t found its way into my news feed to remind me that humanity could probably do with a rather large bout of genocide, aimed at those who insist on wasting valuable oxygen, water and organs, a little girl was gang raped. I couldn’t find the original news story, and to be honest, I’m not interested in reading it. Simply the fact that anyone was raped, especially a little girl and especially gang raped, is horrifying enough. The fact that someone felt the need to make arguments of “It ain’t rape if…” was so much worse.

Apparently, and I say this with as much venom as is physically possible to fit into one statement, it isn’t rape if there are certain factors, and some of these factors were sickening. One was that it isn’t rape if you yell surprise first. It isn’t rape if you don’t say anything. It isn’t rape if she’s asleep. It isn’t rape if she’s drunk. It isn’t rape if you buy her a drink first.

Let me tell you something really, incredibly important.


Rape is horrific, in the past two years, the statistic of women who had been raped has changed from 1 in 5, to 1 in 4. That means if you know four girls, the odds are one of them has been raped. One of them has been either drugged, made drunk, beaten, tied up or woken up to someone forcing themselves onto, and into, them. Imagine your mother, sister, sisters best friend and mums best friend. Imagine them sat together, drinking tea, chatting about what to do for the weekend, about their work, their diets. The girls are chatting about that boy in school, that exam, their horrible school uniforms. They are chatting their way through the day to day joy that is life. The little things that make life what it is. Now, throw in this fact. One of them has been held down, crying, pleading with their attacker, wishing it was just a bad dream, that it would be quick, wondering what they’d had done. Wishing it would stop as someone held them down, hands cutting into their skin, their nerves screaming against the pain, their mind breaking, snapping away from the horror. One of them has woken to find their partner forcing their hand into them, they’ve tried to scream and had a hand forced over their mouth, slicing their lip against their teeth.

Now, in gang rape, picture that, but now picture that the poor victim has to go through, again and again and again, until the long queue of rapists is done with her.

Imagine that and say “It ain’t rape.”

Oh, and do me a favour, if you honestly believe it wasn’t rape because she was asleep or drunk or whatever other reason you come up with to make yourself feel better about what you’ve done, kill yourself. Turn yourself in, and then kill yourself. Rapists are a waste of oxygen, whoever their victim is.

It is rape.


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